A poignant short story about love and life
Awarded 1st Prize – Sports & Cultural Council City of Dublin VEC Short Story Competition, 2010
I’m delighted to have my short story, The Visit, published in the March edition of Live Encounters along with Irish writers Geraldine Mills, Doreen Duffy and Brian Kirk.
Bridie looked out the window of her terraced house. She smiled as she watched Sam pottering around in the garden, stopping to sniff the carnations.
He may not be very talkative but he never moaned at her for the occasional cigarette she enjoyed with her cup of tea. Opening the back door she called out to him. He didn’t even turn his head. It was hard to know whether he was ignoring her or going deaf. She called again and as he walked past her she looked at the sky tutting.
“It would have to rain today, Sam. I’ll be drenched by the time I get to the hospital – like a drowned rat.”
Sam just looked at her.
“Well I won’t be long,” she said, bending to kiss him on the head. She finished fastening the buttons on her shabby coat, tucked her scarf around her collar and pulled on her faded leather gloves. She gave herself a final look in the hall mirror, patted her grey hair into place, glided the end of her pink lipstick across her lips and frowned at the dark circles beneath her brown eyes. Taking an umbrella from the stand, she draped her handbag across her thin frame and pulled the front door closed, giving it a final tug.
Although it was raining she was glad to be outside. A soft day, her parents would have said, back in her native Donegal. The sky was blue, the sun was fighting to appear and there was even a hint of a rainbow.
Bridie opened the door into Cunningham’s Newsagent and queued at the counter. While everyone was talking excitedly about the millions to be won on the lotto this week, her mind wandered, thinking about what she’d cook for dinner later. Maybe as a treat she’d pick up sausages and white pudding and maybe a turnover that she could slice, toast and smother in Kerrygold butter finished off with a steaming mug of tea – something to look forward to. There were three more people in the queue in front of her.
A flash of green caught her eye, as something fell to the floor in front of her.
A poignant short story.
Published in the Circle and Square anthology, December, 2015
(available for sale at Easons in The Square, Tallaght.)
It includes work from a number of writers, including Dermot Bolger, Martin Dyar, Mia Gallagher, Mary Guckian, Ferdia McAnna, Paula Meehan, Geraldine Mills, Louise Phillips, Kevin Power, Trish Best, Annette Bryan, Joan Power, Niamh Byrne, Eileen Casey, Doreen Duffy, Gavan Duffy, Brigid Flynn, Marie Gahan, Sue Hassett, James Hyde, Vivienne Kearns, Brian Kirk, Aine Lyons, Mae Newman, Trish Nugent, Tony Shields and Michael J Whelan.
‘Lipstick?’ asks Mary, squinting at the label. ‘Paradise pink.’
I purse my mouth and close my eyes, enjoying the familiar sensation of the lipstick as it glides over my dry lips.
‘There you go, Lily, all done,’ says Mary.
That woman is a Godsend. She holds the oval hand-mirror in front of my face. I pull it towards me and bend in closer, pressing my lips together. I still find it hard to believe the white-haired woman looking back is me and I most certainly don’t feel my eighty years. It’s merely a number – an indicator to tell the world how many wars and recessions I’ve lived through.
It’s amazing how a splash of colour across my lips always lifts my spirits, but this has been a particular favourite which I’ve worn for the last fifteen years. A visit to the local shopping centre, for my retirement party, had me returning home with a new look courtesy of the make-up counter in Boots. Maybe it’s time for another visit and an overhaul. Nothing too drastic, mind you, I’m not going back to the smoky eyes and red lips of Lauren Bacall at my age. Besides, I’ve always been more of an Audrey Hepburn – wide-eyed and innocent. Or so I’ve been told.
‘Thanks, Mary, you’ve done a great job, as usual.’
Mary moves behind me, fussing and teasing my hair. Her finger hovers over the hairspray tin. ‘Close your eyes.’
I know the drill. Hiding a smile, I cover my face with my hands, only peeking through when the hissing of the spray finally stops. There’s no fear of Mary leaving anything to chance with these tresses. She knows I love to waltz, but I fear she thinks I love to tango and has visions of me with a rose between my teeth as I strut up and down the room with my dance partner. She will ensure that my hair remains unyielding; like spun sugar sitting atop one of those exquisite deserts in the swanky New York restaurants we frequented all those years ago.
Rat-a-tat-tat. Mary checks her watch, raising her eyebrows, before crossing the room to open the door. ‘That’ll be John, I suppose,’ she murmurs.
There are whispered voices and moments later, a tall, grey-haired man appears in the doorway behind her. I watch as he removes his overcoat, shaking specks of rain onto the linoleum. He is dressed in dark trousers with shiny shoes. A crisp white shirt and paisley tie peep through the neck of his navy jumper.
‘They didn’t forecast that downpour, Lily,’ he says, his brown eyes meeting mine. He crosses the room and kisses me gently on the mouth. My heart hammers in my chest. I gasp and turn away, but not before I see a look of dismay cross his face. What does he expect? Just because he’s a handsome man, it doesn’t mean he can take such liberties; we’ve only just met!
‘Lily, it’s me, love. It’s John,’ he says, as if by telling me his name he thinks he can excuse his shocking behaviour.
He sits in the armchair opposite me and tries to lift my hand, but I pull it away. The sound of his melodic voice soothes me as I practice the two-step in my head, my toes tapping. Suddenly he stops talking and looks deep into my eyes.
‘You look well today, Lily,’ he says, ‘I’ve always loved that colour on you.’
I look down at my dress and smile. ‘It’s my favourite colour,’ I tell him. ‘Periwinkle blue; it matches my eyes, I’ve been told.’ I laugh and pat my hair. ‘I had to make an effort to look extra nice today for my visitors. Did I tell you my son, his wife and their young daughter will visit later. I haven’t yet had the pleasure of meeting my granddaughter. Her name is Mia; my very first grandchild. They’re flying in from . . .’ I look towards Mary, ‘flying from . . .’ I can feel myself getting agitated. I click my fingers, hoping that the words will magically appear. They don’t. ‘You know the place I’m talking about, it sounds like Koala bears.’
Mary hesitates. Usually as sharp as a new pin, it appears she has forgotten too. She looks towards the man beside me. They think I don’t notice his barely imperceptible nod before she answers. As if he is giving her permission to speak.
‘Do you mean Kuala Lumpur?’
‘That’s it,’ I say. “When Sean left America he toured the world before settling there.’ I shift in my chair and turn to look at the man beside me. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but you should probably leave soon.’ I give him my sweetest smile to take the sting from my words, ‘I’m sure you understand.’
I’m surprised to see his eyes are moist. And strange how I hadn’t noticed earlier what a beautiful shade of hazelnut brown they are; the same shade as Sean’s.
Mary turns off the radio and I glare at her. ‘What are you doing?’ I snap. ‘I always listen to the midday news.’ I didn’t mean to snap. My voice becomes softer, ‘it’s good to know what’s going on in the world.’
‘I just thought that as John was here—‘
‘I’m sure John will understand,’ I say, glaring at him instead. ‘Besides, my visitors will be here soon and I need to get to Mannings Bakery before it closes to pick up a few cream cakes. I must remember to get Sean’s favourite. He loves those gingerbread men. Maybe I should get one for Mia too.’
‘Good idea,’ he says, ‘but I’d like to wait a while. Sit with you. Just for a little longer.’
I suppose he must be lonely. And he’s doing no harm. We were always brought up to be charitable to those in need. I nod. ‘But you’ll have to stop talking while I listen to the headlines. I always listen to—
There is still no news for the relatives of the missing Malaysia Airlines flight MH370 missing since Saturday. The plane, along with the 239 people on board, vanished off radar screens while en route from Kuala Lumpur to Beijing. The search continues . . .
I can’t breathe. My heart is thundering in my chest, but I can’t breathe. I bend forward, my arms folded across my chest; rocking, rocking, rocking. There is a loud keening noise, like a banshee. It’s blocking out the voice of the newsreader and getting louder.
The banshee …
‘Lily, please. You’ve got to stop!’
‘Lily, it’s okay. It’ll be okay,’ the man says, as he kneels before me.
My eyes fall upon my handbag, sitting beside my chair leg. I pick it up and rummage through it, emerging victorious with my lace handkerchief and mobile phone. I dab my eyes, then begin to press the buttons on the phone but my hands are trembling. Soon my entire body begins to shake and I am powerless to stop it; I feel as if I’m losing control.
‘Let me, love,’ he says, presumptuous as ever, it seems. But I allow him to take the phone.
It springs to life. I know he has dialled Sean because the ring tone is longer than normal. I hold my breath. It rings once, twice, three times and then I hear Sean’s voice. I allow my breath to escape. Only it isn’t Sean. Not Sean in the here and now. It’s the Sean in the phone. The Sean that wants me to leave a message and he’ll get right back to me.
I prise the phone from his shaking hands.
‘Sean, it’s me. I just wanted to check that you were alright. I’m looking forward to your visit.’ The tears have started to run down my face and I choke back a sob. ‘I love you, son.’
The phone slips to the floor.
I bend my head and examine the wizened hands sitting in my lap, where they twist a handkerchief round and round.
I am aware of a man and woman. The man has his back to me, his forehead pressed to the window, while his shoulders move up and down. The woman turns the dials on the radio, finally landing on Frank Sinatra. Fly Me to the Moon, bursts into the room.
The man turns from the window and looks straight at me. His forehead furrows and his red-rimmed eyes glaze over as if deep in thought. Suddenly, it is as if his well-worn face deflates like a popped balloon. I look away. I cannot bear to see such sorrow and it would be insensitive of me to ask what has caused it.
‘Would you like me to fix your hair?’
I turns towards the owner of the soft, country lilt and nod. The pretty, young woman smiles and I relax as the soft bristles of the silver handled brush, glide through my hair. Picking up the matching hand-mirror, I watch the soft white tendrils lift and fall around the face of the old woman in its oval frame. I notice she’s wearing my favourite lipstick, Paradise Pink. I must remember to pick up another tube.
Heavy rain begins to fall, drumming against the window pane. The sky is slate grey but the lush green grass glistens outside. The benches, scattered among the myriad of rose bushes, sit empty and desolate.
It will be nice to have a visitor.
The ghost of a smile reflected on the woman’s lips tells me she agrees.
Then it’s over to YOU for the open mic!
STACCATO is Dublin’s latest Spoken Word event. The idea is to showcase both established and emerging talent in prose and poetry.
FREE admission to Toner’s, Baggot Street from 7.30pm tonight, Wednesday, 30 December 2015.
Look forward to catching up with you all.
It includes work from a number of guest writers, including (in alphabetical order):
As well as a number of Platform One writers, many of who have won or been shortlisted for writing awards including:
the Hennessy Literary Award, the Listowel Writers’ Week Short Fiction Award, the Cecil Day Lewis Award, the Jonathan Swift Short Story Award, the James Plunkett Short Story Award, the RTE/Penguin Short Story Competition, the Patrick Kavanagh International Poetry Award and many more …
Trish Best, Annette Bryan, Joan Power, Niamh Byrne, Eileen Casey, Susan Condon, Doreen Duffy, Gavan Duffy, Brigid Flynn, Marie Gahan, Sue Hassett, James Hyde, Vivienne Kearns, Brian Kirk, Aine Lyons, Mae Newman, Trish Nugent, Tony Shields and Michael J Whelan.
“To open Circle and Square is like entering the sort of fascinating cafe which every shopping centre should ideally possess: a cornucopia of engaging voices and fascinating stories that any reader would happily eavesdrop on. Eileen Casey has deftly knitted together a compelling ensemble of poets and prose writers whose stories complement each other, as they ripple outwards in increasingly imaginative circles to explore the multiudinous facets of everday living. This is an anthology where a shopping expedition or a Luas journey can also bring you on a succession of intriguing and inventive voyages into the past and future. Prepare to be entertained.”
– Dermot Bolger
There will be a sneak preview of Circle & Square at the RED LINE FESTIVAL
on Tuesday the 13th October, 2015
at RUA RED Arts Centre
from 7.00 pm – 8.30 pm.
Guest writers Joan Power and Kevin Power (Bad Day in Blackrock) along with Eileen Casey will be in company with representatives from local trader organisations. The evening will feature the lyrics of WB Yeats put to music by Tony Bardon together with brief readings from Circle & Square (Fiery Arrow Press).
Admission is FREE, but booking is required via (01) 451 5860 or by email, firstname.lastname@example.org.
The official launch of Circle & Square is due to take place in November – details to follow soon!
Lately, I’ve become a huge fan of Flash Fiction – a short, sharp story to get your imagination into a spin. For the writer it offers a challenge to whittle words down to the minimum while still delivering a story worthy of a read.
I’m delighted to have Snared included in the current on-line edition of Brilliant Flash Fiction along with talented writer and friend, Doreen Duffy.
Check out a taster below:
Johnny’s eyes skim the room, finally settling in the corner. It appears darker there; black as ink. Yet he is unable to decipher a shape as his hands feel for the tangled sheet, pulling it over their naked bodies. It is cold and his chest feels as if icy fingers are squeezing his heart. He shudders.
Jennifer? Jemima? Shit! He can’t even remember her name.
If you’d like to read more click here and scroll down to Snared.
And don’t forget to check out Sweet Justice by Doreen Duffy – it just might make you re-think your confectionery choice . . .
Your feedback and comments, as always, much appreciated.
Poets and writers from writing groups, including; Platform One in Rua Red, Lucan Writers, St Muirin’s Writing Group and Virginia House Writers, who read their work in Tallaght Library and were profiled in The Poet’s Corner in The Echo.
Find out more about them and read some of their work:
Michael J Whelan:
The Echo, 26 April 2012 – Michael J Whelan
The Echo, 5 April 2012 – James Hyde
The Echo, 8 March 2012 – Joan Power
The Echo, 1 March 2012 – Eileen Casey
The Echo, 23 February 2012 – Brigid Flynn
The Echo, 16 February 2012 – Tony Bardon
The Echo, 9 February 2012 – Jim Archer
The Echo, 2 February 2012 – Colm Keegan
The Echo, 26 January 2012 – Ray Mullen
The Echo, 12 January 2012 – Brian Kirk
The Echo, 5 January 2012 – Áine Lyons
The Echo, 29 December 2011 – Mae Newman
As an added bonus this week, The Echo have also published a short story called ‘The Rapping Penguin’ by Emily Whelan
(Michael J Whelan’s daughter, aged 9¾):
The Echo, 22 December 2011 – Emily Whelan – p1
The Echo, 22 December 2011 – Emily Whelan – p2
The Echo, 22 December 2011 – Trish Nugent
Ann Marie Mullen:
The Echo, 15 December 2011 – Ann Marie Mullen
The Echo, 8 December 2011 – Kate Dempsey
The Echo, 1 December 2011 – Trish Best
The Echo, 24 November 2011 – Gavan Duffy
The Echo, 17 November 2011 – Maria Wallace
The Echo, 10 November 2011 – Marie Gahan
The Echo, 3 November 2011 – Doreen Duffy
The Echo, 27 October 2011 – Susan Condon
The Echo, 20 October 2011 – Louise Phillips
Michael J Whelan:
The Echo, 13 October 2011 – Michael J Whelan
The Echo, 6 October 2011 – Eileen Casey
I was delighted when my short piece, Secret Librarian, was chosen by Sue Hassett to be included in the Red Line Writing as part of South Dublin Libraries Red Line Book Festival last year, along with fellow writers and poets.
This is a reading of new work by writers from South Dublin, presented in diverse voices by actors from Inchicore College, Carousel Theatre School and Clondalkin Youth Theatre. To have your work read by a professional actor, while you sit in the audience of The Civic Theatre, is, I can assure you, quite a thrill.
Curious Broadcast is a radio station and production company who work with people to exchange knowledge through audio and video productions.
Head over to Curious Broadcast and take a moment to listen to the diverse work delivered on the night. Secret Librarian can be found at 00:22:18 but if you have time, I’d encourage you to listen to them all – you won’t be disappointed.
|Artist’s Statement||Molly O’Dwyer||Rachael Dowling|
|Lily Shepherd||Jen Donohoe||Hayley Roche|
|Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori||Michael J. Whelan||Asa Cuthbert|
|Irish Batt||Michael J. Whelan||Vladic Gurdis|
|Covenant Denied||Michael J. Whelan||Kenneth Hudson|
|Secret Librarian||Susan Condon||Nicola Kirwan|
|Sun God||Gavan Duffy||Kenny Stapleton|
|Classmate||Gavan Duffy||Conor Kelly|
|Border Shop||Mae Newman||Rachael Dowling|
|The Mind Fisher||Doreen Duffy||Hayley Roche|
|Tallaght Tardis||Áine Lyons||Nicola Kirwan|
|2 extracts from Acquittances 123||Sue Hassett||Rachael Dowling|
A selection of photos with writers, from all genres, that I have had the privilege to meet.
I admire them all, not only for for their work, but also for their attitude and their willingness to help fellow writers.
And lots more to be added soon, I hope!
The National Emerging Writer Programme
Dublin City Library and Archive
9 January, 2013:
#TXS2 at The Westin Hotel
November, December 2012:
After Crime Night at the Civic Theatre
Three Voices/Three Forms
Loose End Studio, Civic Theatre
14 November, 2012:
Jonathan Swift Creative Writing Awards
Saggart Heritage & Arts Centre
SDCC European Week Against Racism Poetry Competition
SDCC County Hall
27 March 2012:
Tallaght Library Writers Group
SDCC Bealtaine Short Story Competition
SDCC County Hall
28 May 2010:
City of Dublin VEC Creative Writing Competition
Teachers’ Club, Parnell Square
29 April 2010:
Out and About at Writing Events:
Launch of Red Ribbons by Louise Phillips
Hughes & Hughes Bookshop (5 September 2012)
Photo by Ger at Taken by Titch
You can check out my memory piece, Interned, published
in the third Anthology of Original Writing from Ireland’s Own.
An anthology of the best stories from the annual writing competitions run by Ireland’s premier family magazine.
This collection includes forty short stories and memories pieces from the latest annual writing competitions run by Ireland’s leading family magazine with contributions from South Africa, Switzerland, France, England and sixteen Irish counties.
Also included, from fellow Platform One writers, are a memory piece from Marie Gahan, Requiem for a Prince and a short story from Doreen Duffy, Cuts Like A Knife.
If you’re interested in picking up a copy it’s available to purchase in paperback from Ireland’s Own.
Jonathan Swift Creative Writing Awards, 2012
What a wonderful night, at the Saggart Arts Centre, for the Jonathan Swift Creative Writing Awards Ceremony.
Jam-packed with so many fellow writers the night got off to a lively start with music from Tony Bardon.
Maria Wallace, Hennessy Award winning poet, was the judge who offered her congratulations to all of the entrants who had their poems and prose short listed.
It was an especially enjoyable night for me when two great writer friends were awarded, in the Poetry category:
Third place: Michael J Whelan
First place: Doreen Duffy
To be awarded First place in the Prose category made the night even more memorable.
The evening finished with a customary Irish cuppa, courtesy of Mervyn Ennis and his lovely wife, giving everyone a chance to have a chat.
Little did I know, as I walked into Eileen Casey’s Creative Writing class in September 2008, the world it would open – the Narnia of my childhood resurrected . . .
From the age of seven I’ve always been an avid reader. Then, the libraries of my home and my grandmother’s, from North and South of the Liffey, were scavenged to reap the finest rewards. The little bookcase above my bed, filled to capacity with birthday and Christmas presents, mainly Enid Blyton, in those early days. Now, a bookcase in the family room sits three-deep along with an eReader I swore I would never buy.
I love books too much, I thought, but, it appears, I love the written word, in any shape or form, even more!
I’d be very interested in your feelings on the eReader versus the book – if you have the time to comment . . .
I would be lying if I did not admit to missing the look, the feel and the smell of a book with my eReader, but, on the other hand, I can read six books while on holidays without having to extract a couple of pairs of shoes from my luggage to squeeze them in! I can pick up the classics for free and borrow from the local library without leaving my house – and without incurring a fine when I fail to bring books back on time – they just magically return to the virtual world of the library, ready-and-waiting for their next reader.
And if I thought I’d captured the written word in all of its entirety I was wrong!
Hearing the written word, read aloud, preferably by its writer, really brings the world their words create to life.
I had the pleasure of being one of the many writers involved with the Tallaght Library Readings, facilitated by Eileen Casey, which ran from Monday, 5 December to Monday 19 December.
With Readings of poetry and prose from so many diverse writers; David Mohan, Louise Phillips, Brian Kirk, Mary Guckian, Mervyn Ennis, Doreen Duffy, Michael Whelan, Kate Dempsey and Eileen Casey herself, it was always going to be a success. The fact that The Echo is currently profiling each of these writers has made it even more special; you can find out more about each writer and read a little of their work here.
I wish you a Merry Christmas and hope you have an opportunity to take a break, in this madly busy season, to enjoy WORDS, in every shape and form . . .